Fated
by BrilliantLady
Summary: John has spent decades looking for his soulmate. He doesn't know anything about them, except that they clearly need to be punched in the face for not wanting to follow the accepted social convention of introducing themselves properly by name. Stupid mysterious first words. His Determinist soulmate must be a bloody moron. Johnlock, AU: soulmates, soul marks, first words.


There was a new receptionist at the desk when John limped into his therapist's office. She was young and moderately pretty, with long brown hair tied back in a sleek bun. She tapped away at her computer and ignored him utterly. He didn't want to take it personally, but he couldn't help it. He had been a respected captain. A successful doctor. He was neither now. A non-entity.

He waited for her to look up, to introduce herself first. To ask him a question, to say something random. He hated going first, because it pretty much guaranteed they wouldn't be a match. The air in the office was stale and cold, and there were no sounds except the rapid click of her fingers on the keyboard and the soft whirr of the air-conditioning. She glanced up at him waiting there, leaning on his cane. But she didn't say anything, she just stared at him, her fingers going still on the keyboard. He stared back.

He gave in eventually and spoke first. Perhaps she was old-fashioned, one of those who insisted that gentlemen should always introduce themselves first. He could try and set her up, fish for the response he needed, but John despised the thought of doing to someone else what his soulmate would one day do to him.

"John Watson, 11th of July 2010, London."

She smiled and looked so relieved and happy at his introduction that John felt a moment of hope, just a hint of fluttering optimism. It didn't last long.

"Amy Smith, 11th of July 2010, London," she said brightly, and John's heart sank. "Sorry, I know that was unusual, and a little awkward. My match is a Determinist, you see. There'll be no helpful introduction for me. His first words don't have any self-identification in them at all."

John sighed and nodded. He had the same problem. "I understand."

He tried not to be insulted that she was _relieved_ that he wasn't her soulmate.

-000-

"Any more nightmares, John?" Dr. Thompson asked.

"Uh, no. Good, everything's good," John lied. He didn't want to talk about it, even though she was his therapist and talking about his psychological problems was theoretically precisely what he was there for.

"Mm hmm. How about that exercise I set for you? Future planning?"

"I don't have any plans. I uh, made a grocery list. For Friday. If that counts?"

"Don't you feel you would do better with some goals? They don't have to be big ones, John. You don't have to be planning for a new career. You could make a plan to buy a pot plant for your apartment, or to go for a walk twice a week. Get some exercise."

"With my leg?"

"Having a mild disability doesn't make you incapable of exercising, John. Getting out and about will do you good."

"Yeah, I know. I'll try." She had a point. He knew all this already. The empty loneliness of being outside might be a nice change from the empty loneliness of being inside his dingy little flat.

"We haven't talked about your soulmate yet."

"I still don't want to." His hand went to the thick leather bracelet on his wrist which hid the words that were inked onto his skin. The ridiculous non-standard first words that would be spoken to him by his soulmate one day when the two of them eventually met.

The bracelet was plain black leather, the unadorned style of accessory suitable for those who were unbonded, widowed, or divorced. Some lucky souls gained a second match after losing or leaving their first. No matter what Hollywood tried to sell to the world, some soulmates were only a match for a while, for a handful of years. Some people eventually grew apart.

Dr. Thompson's bracelet was a wide band of silver, engraved with decorative swirls and inset with wavy rows of pink gems. The luxurious marker of the bonded, someone who'd met their soulmate. Well, the budget version for the middle-class, anyway. Those who could afford it bought solid gold matching bracelets, rather than silver or stainless steel.

He glanced at Dr. Thompson's notebook upside down and read what she'd written down. 'Trust issues.'

"Was your soulmate in Afghanistan, John? Was it the man whose life you couldn't save?" Her voice was laden with genuine sympathy, and it made John open up to her a little, since she wasn't judging him for the possibility that his match might have been a bloke in the army. He hated homophobes not just for his sister's sake, but because he himself was bisexual. That was a fact he shared with very few and he hadn't told his therapist he sometimes fancied blokes, but maybe she'd guessed on her own. Sometimes people did, even though he wasn't sure what gave his sexuality away. Too many gender-neutral pronouns, perhaps.

"I haven't met my soulmate yet," he offered up. He doesn't want her thinking he was traumatised by soul shock from his match's death, that wouldn't be right. Apart from it being rude to leave her suffering from a false assumption, she'd waste both their times trying to treat him for a psychological condition he didn't have.

She smiled, genuinely relieved. "I'm so glad. So, when are you due to meet them? Many people who are feeling a bit lost find solace in looking forward to their fated moment. It could give you a focus, John. A time, a place. Have you got many matches from the national database?"

He glanced away. "They're clearly a Determinist. I don't know _anything_. I've tried meeting a few people over the years who had a 'John Watson' or a 'John', but they weren't matches for my own soul mark."

No-one had said the right words to him yet, even when he'd – in his desperation – gone through a phase of introducing himself just with his name to potential matches his assigned case worker had sent him on. Usually it was quite an automated process, but for special cases you could request human intervention rather than just relying on automatically generated results.

There was silence for a moment, before his therapist spoke again. "I'm so sorry. It's very rare, but it does happen. As a matter of fact, my new receptionist-"

"Not a match."

"Well, there's groups you can go to. You could meet fellow Determinists, see if one of them-"

"I hate those bastards," John said bitterly. "I'm not one of them. I hate the lot of them, and their antiquated beliefs about fate and 'letting it happen naturally'. All that bullshit about the mystery of it all, and none of them registering their names in the database, because it takes the 'magic' out of everything."

"That's a lot of passion. Do you find it's hard, John? Not knowing when you'll meet them?"

"I don't want to talk about it any further. There's nothing more to say."

She underlined something in her notebook. He could guess what it was, without seeing the words again.

Her voice was irritatingly placid as she said, "You know, not everyone who goes to Determinist meetings believes in their philosophy. The hard-core extremists don't even go to them – they view it as cheating, as not showing enough trust in the universe to guide them to their soulmate. Many of them are more like you and Amy. People hoping for a chance.

"If you don't believe in fate, in predestined meetings, then you should logically be willing to give things a helping hand. Go to one of their meet-ups, John. See if anything comes of it."

"I don't rely on destiny," John said defensively. "I've travelled across dozens of countries in three continents in search of my soulmate. Years, I've given it. But ninety-nine per cent of the world's population aren't idiots and introduce themselves properly, instead of spouting some random, unhelpful..."

John trailed off uncertainly with a sigh. It still wasn't done to talk about your soul mark, and most people in Europe kept to the old tradition that said that the words around your wrist should be a hidden secret that you shared only with your soulmate. In this modern era the vast majority of people entered their soul mark first words and contact details into a highly secure national database, so they could be discreetly sent any matching results to their own mark. Apart from that process, the old tradition of hiding your words in public beneath a bracelet held on tightly, if only to prevent unscrupulous people faking a match. Celebrities and the wealthy were particularly scrupulous about keeping their soul marks secret.

In some countries like Denmark the younger generation was embracing the computer age whole-heartedly. Some parents over there were now opting into a new government initiative and assigning their child a unique alphanumeric code as part of their first thing to say whenever they introduced themselves, to make finding matches even easier. Vocal groups of American evangelicals were roaring about the end times and the number of the beast and felt that the whole thing was against God's will.

John startled slightly as his therapist tired of waiting for him to continue and interrupted his train of thought.

"If you've travelled so much around the world then going to Piccadilly won't be too much of a hardship, will it? Give it a chance and try a meeting."

"Alright. I'll give it a try. Once."

She nodded approvingly. "I also want you to think about starting a blog."

-000-

The Determinist support group meeting at Piccadilly was larger than John had expected – he could see forty or fifty people gathered inside the church hall. Non-standard soul marks were rare these days, and not something you boasted or talked about in public.

"Is it always this crowded?" John whispered to Amy.

"A lot of members only turn up when there's a new guest," she whispered back. "Remember, you can't use the standard modern introduction of name, date, and place here – that's a big faux pas. Absolutely anything else is fine. Some people might just say hello, while others have specific phrases they use that are more unique. Whatever works for you is fine."

"Right," John said nervously, clearing his throat.

He walked into the hall and felt like a wounded gazelle surrounded by a herd of starving lions. The expectant gazes of the crowd were almost palpable.

A few people came up towards him instantly – a few women and one shy young man formed a bit of a line, each waiting for their turn to greet him.

"I'm Jessica – do you like to dance?" an aging blonde asked him.

"Not with this leg," he said with a self-deprecating smile, glancing down at his cane.

She gave a wistful little laugh. "Yes, I thought it was a long shot." She turned away in obvious disappointment that was a little flattering to his currently fragile ego.

"I'm John," he said to the next woman, a dark-skinned middle-aged woman in a business suit, "and I'd love to know if there is somewhere in the world you'd most hate to live?"

She sighed. "Marjorie, and I have no idea. No offence."

"None taken. Good luck finding your soulmate, Marjorie," he said politely.

The shy young man was next, and he raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner as he approached. John nodded and smiled encouragingly. He would prefer it if his match was a woman, but he'd dated men in the past, and certainly wouldn't shy away if his soulmate turned out to be a man. Only the real hardcore religious nuts insisted that a same-sex match meant you were supposed to be like brothers or sisters. John thought the man was a bit young for him, perhaps in his early twenties, and his skinny coltishness wasn't especially appealing, but his green eyes were gorgeous. He'd give it a shot.

"Would you like to talk about computers?" the young man asked leadingly, his voice quavering with suppressed emotion.

"I've just started a blog, but there's nothing on it yet," John said. "Sorry, we're not a match."

"Damn. Damn," the young man swore.

"I'm very flattered, though. If you wanted to get a drink some-"

"No! No, sorry," he apologised. "I'm waiting for my soulmate."

"Fair enough."

The next woman to greet John was a young brunette who was so pretty that John decided to take the lead again and introduce himself first. It felt awkward, setting things up for the reply he wanted, but these people were all like him – _hoping_ for an unusual introduction to each other.

"Guess where I've travelled to recently?" he asked.

"Spain, maybe? You've got a bit of a tan. Sorry." She shook her head. "You're not my type, really, but I thought I'd try anyway."

"It's alright."

The first half of the meeting was all like that – awkward meetings and disappointed hopes. An embarrassing number of relieved people, too. John threw out optimistic leading comments about the army, his leg, and travel, and fielded generic greetings and entirely different and unhelpful comments and questions by others. A few people left straight after greeting John, while most others lingered for tea and biscuits, and small talk with either fellow Determinists or those who were bitter about being paired with one.

There was a bit of a division in the room, and when they were all seated in a circle of chairs to talk about their feelings for the second half of the support group meeting, it became more obvious. Some spoke in reverent whispers about hope, faith, and the inevitability of true love. Others were more bitter and talked about the pain and anger that came from years of fruitless waiting.

"Sometimes I daydream about meeting my soulmate," the young brunette said, toying with the woven black cloth band on her wrist, spinning it around in slow circles. "Sometimes I think I'll cry and kiss him like crazy. Other days I make plans to slap him across his stupid face for giving me such an idiotic bland greeting branded on my wrist and making me wait so long when we could've met years ago."

John was one of those nodding along in fervent empathy with that statement.

"I think waiting for it to happen naturally is more romantic. Much more than being sent a slip of paper by a computer to meet your soulmate at a Coming of Age Ball when the youngest in the pair turns eighteen," an older woman insisted. "I adore the _real_ love stories of soulmates. Like that man in the _Daily Mail_ who spent his life playing extreme sports, waiting for someone to yell, 'Look out!' And then he had his fated moment when a woman pulled him out of the way of a speeding car while he was on holiday in Brighton. That's special, not all cold and clinical like the government wants it to be."

There was a chorus of happy sighs and murmured agreement. John wasn't a part of it.

-000-

A man called out to John as he limped through the park, getting some daily exercise as recommended for both his physical and mental health. John was out of shape enough already and was getting soft around the middle. Best to nip that in the bud. He did it grudgingly, grimly, but he did it. Maybe he'd write about it on his empty blog. Talk about his aches and pains, and how annoying the sunshine was.

"John! John Watson!"

"John Watson, 25th of July 2010, London," John replied automatically.

The man laughs. "Never mind that, we've met already. Stamford, Mike Stamford, we were at Barts together!"

They chatted for a while, catching up over coffee in the park, and Mike suggested John find someone to flatshare with, to ease the burden of renting in London on a tight budget.

"C'mon, who'd want me for a flatmate?" John said, and Mike laughed at him.

"What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today," Mike said, with a broad smile.

"Who was the first?"

"Come on, I'll introduce you. He's an odd chap, but I think you might like him."

-000-

Mike led John into a medical laboratory in St. Bart's, a level above the morgue, where a skinny dark-haired man in a black suit working at one of the tables immediately asked to borrow Mike's phone, ignoring John's entrance entirely.

John decided stubbornly to do the same and wait out the other man. "Here, Mike, he can use mine," John said, passing his phone to Mike to hand over.

"Thanks, John. This is an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike said encouragingly, as he gave John's phone to the man, jerking his head in John's direction.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man asked, not even making eye contact as he fiddled with John's phone, lazily asking a strange question rather than introducing himself properly like everyone else in the world did who wasn't a _complete bastard_.

John froze, and his eyes widened. _It was him_. John's soulmate, and he wasn't even _looking_ at him. Where was that magical moment where your eyes met? Where you knew they were the one and now you wouldn't be alone ever again? All lies, clearly. John was _furious_. He'd given up a promising career as a surgeon and joined the army _purely_ because it might give someone a reason to ask where he'd served. He'd gotten _shot_ , and wrecked his career and his body, and this was all he got? Cold indifference as he was asked the moronic question that had plagued his life for years?

John hissed angrily, "I almost died because of you, you _utter bastard_."

The man went very still, and slowly looked up from John's phone. He looked utterly flabbergasted, and said softly, "I must admit I never imagined those words would be said in a morgue laboratory, of all places. In the middle of a dangerous police investigation seemed the most likely scenario. I was very relieved it wasn't Anderson or Donovan. Or, well… most people. Most people are idiots."

Mike looked between the two of them, puzzled. "I know Sherlock's a Determinist, but what are you up to, John, breaking with tradition like that? You've never done that before?"

"Him! It's him!" John said, pointing a shaking finger at Sherlock, who was still staring at John, his eyes flicking over him from head to toe as if cataloguing every detail of his appearance. "He's the bloody one I've been looking for all these years!"

Mike sucked in a breath in an excited gasp. "Is this a fated moment? Oh, how… well, romantic doesn't feel like the right word, really. Dramatic?"

"Why would you even ask that, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'" John demanded, tugging at his wristband.

Sherlock's gaze flicked down to his own dark leather band that peeked out from under the cuff of his shirt. "Better than going around your entire life knowing you will endanger your soulmate's life and he'll think you're a bastard for doing so."

"Oh. Well… yes. Sorry," John said, wincing as he suddenly realised the hurtful mark he'd accidentally inflicted on his soulmate in a rash moment of anger.

"I've tried to live up to it," Sherlock said dryly.

John winced again. "Sorry, again. I just felt… like it was you who started it. Which isn't fair, I guess, even though you did speak first."

A woman, Molly, entered with coffee, and Mike turned to her with a delighted grin as Sherlock took the coffee, and John shook with emotion, leaning heavily on his cane.

"Molly, dear, you'll never guess!" Mike said excitedly.

"I'm sure she won't," Sherlock said, returning his attention to John's phone. Instead of texting, however, he was turning it over, peering at it curiously.

"My friend John here and Sherlock are soulmates!"

"Oh!" Molly said, with a painfully fixed smile. "That's… lovely, Sherlock. Congratulations."

"Is it? It's not going well so far. But then, I never expected it would."

"I said sorry," John muttered. "Twice. So, tell me, why that question, out of nowhere? I joined the army because of you, you know. Afghanistan, by the way."

"Because that was the one thing I couldn't deduce, of course. There's always something. I wanted to know where you'd been in service.

"How do you feel about the violin? Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, will that bother you? Future flatmates and partners should know the worst about each other."

"I have… things…" Molly said vaguely, and wandered out of the room, the door swinging shut behind her.

"Is she alright?" John asked, looking after her concernedly. "Were you two dating? I'm not one of those possessive strict types who insists on their soulmate immediately severing all other ties after meeting, you know."

"No, we weren't," Sherlock said. "She's not meeting her soulmate for at least another decade. Don't mind her, she always gets jealous of bonded couples.

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London, we can meet there tomorrow evening at seven."

"We've only just met, and now we're moving in together?" John asked. "I don't know anything about you, and you don't know me! Perhaps you've got some sentimental Determinist ideals about fated couples falling into each other's arms and beds, but I've always thought people should get to know each other first."

"I have been accused of many things in my time but being sentimental has never before been one of them," Sherlock said, with a tiny quirk of his lips. "You might not know me, but I know you, John."

Sherlock showed off his dazzling display of logical steps that had led him to deduce that John was an army doctor recently invalided home from military service in Afghanistan or Iraq, with a psychosomatic limp, and an alcoholic brother who'd recently left his wife. Also, that John had already been in search of a flatmate, and that – obviously – he blamed his soulmate for his injury in Afghanistan.

"That… was amazing," John said, in genuine astonishment.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked, with a sudden touch of hesitant shyness.

"Of course it was! Extraordinary, quite extraordinary."

Sherlock smiled. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

"Well, I'm not most people."

"No, you are not," Sherlock said, and John's heart skipped a beat as the man – his soulmate – smiled at him with genuine admiration for the first time. "You are something truly special. Or you would not be my soulmate."

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street," Sherlock added, leaving with a flirtatious wink. "I will see you tomorrow!"

John looked around in a daze, and Mike smiled again. "Yeah, he's always a bit like that. You'll get used to him, I guess. Unless you're going to officially deny your bond? I mean, it's unusual, but you can if you want to."

"No… no. I guess I'll give it a whirl. It's fated, after all."

John smiled. The man was definitely odd, just like he'd been warned. But he was the furthest thing from boring that he could imagine. He was brilliant… fascinating. Sherlock was exactly what he needed in his life right now, and that was _precisely_ what your soulmate was supposed to be. He hoped he would be the same for Sherlock.


End file.
